


With This Breath

by giganyte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bittersweet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I cant be a happy person, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giganyte/pseuds/giganyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You - you saved me, Cas,” Dean almost whispers, breaking the silence.<br/>Cas blinks. “Of course I did.”<br/>Dean still thinks of him, sometimes.<br/>No, not sometimes. Sometimes is a lie. Every waking moment is filled with that encompassing longing, and it never stops. He doesn’t know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With This Breath

It was twilight the first time their lips met.

The sun was seeping through the clouds, almost reaching them where they stood, its golden rays reaching out to caress the trees and the buildings and will their shadows to swell and drench the world in night. It was picturesque, and perfect, and in that moment, all either of them could think about was the other.

Both were drenched in sweat, and covered with dirt, and smelt of pine and pumpkin spice; they leaned against the trees of a slowly thinning wood as they watched the sun fade through the leaves above. Castiel did this, particularly. Because Dean’s eyes were more readily drawn to something other than the fading colors in the clouds.

He watched Cas’ face as the man regarded the scene before him, and seeing the his smile made the hunter unconsciously mirror it upon his own lips. It was as though the other man had never seen a sunset before. Like he was experiencing his first glimpse of earth’s beauty, and was stunned into silence by its magnificence. His face was one of such incredible wonder and awe that Dean decided nobody, not anyone at all, would ever be able to overlook it.

He traced Cas’ lips, his eyes, his wonderfully messy hair. He drank in his smile like a man dying of thirst and gazed at his eyes as if their ocean of crystal blue relayed to him secrets from the dawn of time. Dean revered him and his head of raven tresses, dark locks falling this way and that to frame his dirt-covered face. He imagined running his hands through it, imagined grabbing onto Cas’ head as their bodies moved together, thought of Cas saying his name in his delicious voice, Cas’ hands on his body, Cas’ lips on his –

“Dean?”

“Uh,” pulled from his thoughts, he cleared his throat, and then: “Cas?” His voice came not at all like it usually did; it was like a squeak.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asked, tipping his head in that absolutely endearing way that he did when he was confused. (Which was often.)

Dean looked at him. He wondered if he was blushing as hard as he felt like he was. “Why’re you asking?”

“You’ve been very still for quite a while now. You must have been very lost in thought.”

Something like that.

Cas looked back up at the sky, which was progressively getting more purple. Dean glanced around embarrassedly, and put his hands in his pockets, since they were slick with nervous sweat. He fidgeted for a while, all too aware of how awkward he probably looked, before Cas asked:

“What were you thinking about?”

“Ah, nothing,” Dean replied, trying his best to come off as self-assured.

“Okay.” He was still looking up at the fading sky.

And suddenly, with a burst of recklessness, Dean did something crazy.

“Actually,” he corrected, trying to keep his words steady, “I was thinking about you.”

Castiel looked at him imploringly. “Me?” Was that a blush on his cheeks? Dean couldn’t tell, the sky was much too dark now.

“Yeah,” Dean answered. Now he had to look away, or he’d screw everything up – he can’t bear to watch Castiel’s face as he tries to talk. “You.”

“What about me?” Cas’ voice is deep and rich, and interestingly, it reminds Dean of the taste of dark chocolate. He gets so caught up in that perfect voice that he doesn’t register the slight stutter that accompanies the other man’s words.

And then-

Shit, what did he just do? What is he supposed to say now?

“Just, you’ve done a hell of a lot. For me. For Sammy,” he trips over his words. “- for both of us. I mean, you fell from _heaven_ ,” he makes sure to stress that part, because, really, who does that?

“I mean, c’mon, who does that? It’s super fucking awesome of you. I’d never expect that from anybody – not Sam, not Bobby, not even me!” Being honest, though; were he an angel, Dean probably _would_ fall from heaven – if he hadn’t already gotten himself thrown out - for a good cause. _For Cas._

“And, uh, I just wanna say that I’m really – I just – thanks. You’re family. And you went through a lot of shit for us.”

Dean fell silent. It’s just things he’s said before. What he really wants to say – needs to – will probably never come out. Because that’s how Dean Winchester works. The world will fall apart and build itself up again thousands of times before he says what he’s really feeling, and it really is a mortal flaw.

He finally turned back to Cas, who was looking at him as if he was the particularly interesting animal attraction of a petting zoo. They both stared at each other for a long time, green eyes and blue eyes locked together in – well, whatever it is that it was. Dean watched the other man’s face for any sign of what he was thinking – but whatever it was, he couldn’t tell. Cas didn’t offer any insight into it, either. He was completely silent.

Dean wished he would say something, _anything_. This was way too uncomfortable. He wanted to know what was going on in that head of his; that fucking goddamn _gorgeous_ head of his. Why was this so hard? Why did it need saying? Why couldn’t everyone just know the way that Dean feels, why did he need to go through all of this to make them understand? And that’s what bothers him most. It’s not the obliviousness, or the fact that he’s so very scared of what he’s feeling (though he’s much to macho to ever admit it); no, the thing that makes him toss and turn all night, and boil from the inside out, and chew his fingernails, and blush and stutter, is the not-knowing. He doesn’t know who Cas loves him too, or even if he thinks like Dean does, if he feels like Dean does. _That’s_ what kills him.

It’s too damn hard! This is the man who pulled him out of hell, who saved him! The man who told him he was worth it, no matter what he did. This is the man who made Dean, for quite possibly the first time in his entire life, maybe think that he was just a little bit deserving of _anything_.

It shouldn’t be so hard.

But it is. And he has to try to get it out.

“You - you saved me, Cas,” Dean almost whispers, breaking the silence.

Cas blinks. “Of course I did.”

“You fell from heaven.”

Cas just looks at him.

“And you – well, you’re human now. Lost your angel juice.”

Silent. It’s so fucking silent. He can’t do this. And even though it wasn’t his original intent, he’s going to apologize again. Apologize for talking, mostly. Maybe a little for what he was speaking about.

So Dean turns away once more.

Just like he always does.

“I’m sorry, man. I shouldn’t have made you do -”

And suddenly, Cas is moving. He moves so fast that it seems impossible that he’s really lost his wings, just a flash of no-longer-trench-coated man. But Dean is whirled around, hands gripping his shoulders, and pulled close to him. He is gripping his jacket, tight, knuckles white. His warm breath is ghosting across Dean’s face and his eyes are blazing with life.

Dean flashes back to a dark night, not too long ago, really, when he was being pushed up against a stone wall by those same hands, bleeding from cuts they had made. He thinks of an even closer time, when Cas almost killed him while under Naomi’s control. The man can be very frightening when he wants to be, and his blue eyes can burn like fire. Dean wonders what he’s done this time, because it seems like he’s about to get knocked around again.

“Don’t you dare apologize, Dean Winchester. You did not make me do anything,” As he talked, he gained momentum. “I fell, and I lost my grace, yes, but it was most certainly was _not_ your fault. I made all of the decisions myself. This,” he paused, and nodded to himself, “was all brought upon me by my own hand. If you do not realize by now that you deserve to be saved, I… I …”

But whatever Castiel was going to do, it was never said; because he cut himself off abruptly and looked up at Dean. It felt like infinity, time stretched out into that one small second as they locked eyes again, and Castiel’s were noticeably softened. And then, catching Dean completely off guard, he leaned in and placed his lips on the hunter’s.

At first, Dean didn’t reciprocate, standing still like a wax dummy in a museum as the other man’s mouth closed around his own. Slowly, though, he registered the fact that _yes, this was happening_ , and he kissed him back with a vengeance.

Their lips parted, and they were rapidly gaining momentum and want until they were kissing fiercely, the softness of the minute and the need to savor the moment forgotten. Dean closed his eyes, losing himself in Cas; this was all that mattered, this was heaven and this was Cas and he was so beautiful, so, so beautiful.

Soon, though, it was over and the other man was pulling away, and however much Dean leaned closer, he was farther gone. The hunter opened his eyes and looked at him once more, flushed and happy and still not quite believing what just happened.

They were both at a loss for words, and so they just stayed silent for a while. But it was a companionable silence, not at all like the ones that preluded it, and they let it be for a while, smiling at each other.

Dean was the one to break it. “Man, that was hot.”

And Cas only smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners and mouth pulling up to show a set of pearly teeth. And then he chuckled, and Dean did too, and that moment is perfect.

“It’s dark. Sam will be waiting for us. We should go back to the motel,” Cas said seriously. The sun had disappeared, and if they strained their ears, they could hear the howl of night-creatures in the distance.

“Fuck him,” Dean said, face still flushed. He really, really wanted to kiss Cas again.

“Him? I thought our bond was _profound_ , Dean,” Cas pouted. “I fell from heaven for you, you know.”

And Dean had never laughed so hard.

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

  
 _"Darkness inhabits_

_Every shadow_

_Every corner_

_Every hole_

_Of the home she made_

_Out of her broken soul"_

- _Eve's Song_ , by Angela Mason

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

Cas was beautiful.

Dean still thinks of him, sometimes.

Sometimes. _Sometimes_ is a lie.

No, it happens continuously, not only occasionally – he never _stops_ thinking about Cas. But the worst happens when his eyes fall unto something, anything, that has the ability to reach deep into the dusty attics of his mind, uninvited, and touch the seemingly animal part of him that dwells there. Bring up the memories again. And then, after that, he wants to _scream_ , and sometimes he does, and he wants to _forget_ , and a lot of the time he tries to. And he wants to _die_ , but he’s just so tired that he usually just screws up his eyes and tries his best to drown in the tears that race down his cheeks, hot and salty. It’s as if he’s a beast from a legend or a tale of old, cowering in on himself, wounded and angry.

Angry. He’s too empty to be angry.

His essence is scarred and timeworn, weary with fatigue and with the longing that seemed to have just sprung up one day and quite simply refused to pull its roots away from where it had planted them; which was everywhere. The feeling spread like a summertime weed, and made its way through his head until there was nothing left untouched. It was a disease. A sickness. And he can feel it, feel it breathing inside him like the monster that it is. A manifestation of his darkest thoughts that never lets him go.

Inside every single thought that crosses his bedraggled and careworn mind, there is something lurking; he can even feel it in the corners of his head when it is not overtaking him, when it is silently and maliciously waiting and staring and laughing; he can feel it holding on to him with a grip like ice that stops any bit of tranquility from seeping through a consuming, creaking, groaning,

g

r 

o

w

i

n

g

dam of cold, hard despondency.

Dean thinks of him all of the time – every waking moment is filled with that encompassing longing, and it never stops. The dam is too strong. And he doesn’t know what to do.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this, a review would be the equivalent of a kingdoms worth of jewels, no joke.  
> [my tumblr](http://giganyte.tumblr.com/)


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